


Pour Jouir Par Terre

by onanomnomotopoeia



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Locker Room, Olicity Valentine's Day Smut-A-Thon, Training, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 11:24:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9722168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onanomnomotopoeia/pseuds/onanomnomotopoeia
Summary: Her body whispersbut it would be really funand her mind tells her body to go fuck itself, and her body flares pleasantly with an enthusiasticOKAY!and Felicity’s imagination is really just way too developed for her own good and these internal conversations really can’t be sane or healthy, right?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: post-workout locker room sex
> 
> Probably should go without saying, but: this is pure lemon, so please heed the rating.

“That’s good,” Oliver grunts, then breathlessly instructs, “now use your thighs.”

With a groan, Felicity loosens her legs only a little bit, then twists her arms around Oliver’s body until she has the leverage she needs to swing her legs up where she needs them. She’s exhausted, her limbs starting to shake and burn, but Oliver is relentless, pushing her to the limits of what her body is capable of.

Just when she’s sure her muscles are going to give out, everything seems to fall into place; her mind quiets, and her body takes over, and before she realizes it, her thighs are around Oliver’s head and one of his arms, and the motion forces him to submit, sending them both to the mats with a muted thump.

Felicity is sweaty, her heart is racing, and she is breathing way too fast. She is not in nearly the shape she should be for this, but at least she isn’t the only one affected by their wrestling session; Oliver is just as damp, if not panting as hard as she is, but Felicity will take what she can get.

“That was fantastic, Felicity,” Oliver says, voice muffled somewhat. He’s still nestled between her thighs, the two of them having landed in a heap. He doesn’t seem in a hurry to move, and his breath heats the skin of her inner thighs, making them tremble slightly.

She lets her thighs fall away, and she picks picks up her head to grin at him. “Only you would be proud of me for getting you in a triangle.”

His returning grin takes on a playful edge. “I’ll always be happy to be caught in this particular triangle.”

She rolls her eyes, but she can’t help but appreciate the picture he makes, lying stomach down, flushed and sweaty between her legs. She collapses back and closes her eyes, trying to calm down from both the workout and the moment.

Oliver had insisted on these weekly training sessions almost as soon as they came back to Star City, concerned about her ability to defend herself against the increasing likelihood of an attack from Darhk or his Ghosts. They’re usually alone in the lair, which is a good thing, because every time they spar, Felicity has to fight back the steady hum of arousal she feels at having Oliver’s impressive physique work against hers.

It’s distracting and puzzling and a little embarrassing, because Oliver always seems so controlled. And, well, oblivious to her tension, aside from the occasional innuendo that wrestling itself tends to encourage. Sure, his body reacts (she feels his reaction occasionally pressing into her back or stomach while they wrestle), but that’s probably a simple biological response to their movements. He never acknowledges it, and he’s the same thorough, thoughtful partner he always is when they go home to the loft and their bed.

Felicity would never complain about that--the sex is always, always good--but the result is that she’s pretty sure she’s the only one dealing with these weird, erotic feelings that honestly seem pretty kinky, coming after sessions in which her boyfriend finds varied and interesting ways of pinning her to the floor.

And speaking of, she opens her eyes to find Oliver on his knees beside her, holding out his hand to help her up. “One more time, there’s something I want to try.”

Felicity groans. “Noooo. I just beat you, that’s enough. Let’s end on a high note, huh?”

Oliver smiles with sympathy at that. “Just one more thing. It’ll be quick.”

She sighs, but lets him help her up and put her in position, and--she doesn’t know if he’s figured out her little problem and is trying to torture her, because the position is her on her hands and knees with him behind and on top of her, arms around her torso to keep her in place. She’s already breathless again, and they haven’t even started.

“This position is called _par terre_ \--”

“Is it really necessary that I know what the position is called?” Felicity asks wryly.

“Just so that I can explain what it is and common ways to get out of it if I’m not there to help you,” Oliver says patiently.

This is not the first time she’s noted his propensity toward lecturing during their sparring sessions, and it never fails to tickle her. Felicity thinks he just wants to demonstrate that he knows things, but his habit of breaking down every move is also probably because he just likes to talk to her, and she finds that adorable.

But also, she’s not sure how knowing this move is going to help her against the Ghosts they’ve seen wreaking havoc on the streets of their city. “Hon, if you’re not there to help me and I’m in this position, something has gone horribly wrong and getting out of this hold will be the least of my problems.”

She feels Oliver tense above her at the implications in that statement, and she immediately regrets it, even if it’s true. When he speaks, his voice is almost a growl, dark and serious. “All the more reason for you to learn. You can always save yourself, Felicity. There’s always a way.”

“Alright,” she says, lifting a hand to find his head and stroke up through his hair in a comforting gesture, “then show me how.”

A few beats pass before he relaxes a bit, and she gives him one more calming caress before she drops her hand back to the mat. 

This time, he’s all business--there’s no playfulness underlying his explanations and instructions, her earlier words having sobered him up completely. Felicity knows it’s because Oliver is afraid of anything happening to her, but as he demonstrates moves and strategies for getting the upper hand in a _par terre_ position, she finds it harder and harder to concentrate on his technique. She’s trying to take it as seriously as he is, but her body is not quite on the same page. 

He turns her on her back and gets her into a clinch, and she feels a wave of pure heat from her hair to her sex; he walks her through how to flip _him_ on his back and mount him, and the friction of her hips against his has her biting back a moan. He places her back on her hands and knees, and then teaches her how to use her hips and legs to get him off-balance so that she can get up and run, and all her muscles tense with pleasure and anticipation.

She’s so on edge, she’s starting to shake for reasons that have nothing to do with fatigue. She should be wrestling Oliver with survival and escape in mind like he wants, she should be thinking of him as a possible assailant and fighting him as such, but she just can’t seem to. 

Because it’s Oliver’s strong thighs surrounding hers, his muscled arms pressing under her breasts, his solid chest against her back, his hot breath caressing the nape of her neck, his scent lingering on her and driving her crazy.

It’s all driving her so crazy that by the time he’s demonstrating a back control move, when he’s got her pressed stomach-first onto the mat, she is on the verge of a breathtaking orgasm. She is so close, in fact, that one more hard thrust of her hips against the floor would push her over, and she finds herself tapping out frantically to prevent herself the humiliation.

Oliver releases her immediately and she rolls quickly so that her face is out of his line of sight. Her body is aching with unfilled lust and her stomach is literally swooping and her nipples are tingling and she’s mouthing _oh my god_ to the shadowed corners of the lair, shocked at herself.

“Are you okay?” Oliver asks, concerned at the change in her body language.

“Yep,” she squeaks, unable modulate her voice. Her blood hasn’t settled, and she’s probably imagining it, but she can feel it rushing and throbbing in places she’s desperately needing to ignore right now. “Yep, all fine. No problems or weirdness here.”

She sneaks a look at Oliver’s face and internally cringes, because _alarm_ is the word that best describes the expression on his face. He looks alarmed at her behavior and uncertain about what to do about it.

And she can’t help him with that, because, really, _how_ would she explain it? She doesn’t know how to explain it to _herself._ She’s never been close to _climaxing_ during these sessions before, and she never would have thought she _could_ get that close. 

How in the world could she have predicted she’d be getting off on her boyfriend manhandling her and holding her down? She is discovering all sorts of new and unexpected things about her sexuality and she is sure as hell not going to share those discoveries with Oliver.

Her body whispers _but it would be really fun_ and her mind tells her body to go fuck itself, and her body flares pleasantly with an enthusiastic _OKAY!_ and Felicity’s imagination is really just way too developed for her own good and these internal conversations really can’t be sane or healthy, right?

Oliver is still shifting on the mats looking worried, and it dawns on Felicity that she’s been standing there staring at a wall without speaking out loud for a while now.

Blushing from head to toe, Felicity turns on her heel and heads toward the locker room. “Why don’t we take a shower?” she manages, although her voice still sounds high and odd and everything is awful.

She makes it into the locker room in record time, and tries to use the few moments it takes her to peel off her tight workout clothes to calm herself down. Oliver comes in behind her, and his proximity ensures that any hopes she had of cooling off were ridiculous.

“Felicity...” Oliver trails off, and he sounds...braced? Worried? Some combination of the two. “Did I hurt you?”

“No!” She whirls around, embarrassment and nakedness forgotten, because she can't ever let him, the gentlest and most considerate boyfriend she's ever had, think that he'd hurt her. “No, of course not.”

“Are you sure? Because you can tell me if I did, it's not--I can change how I teach, we don't have to spar. We can work more with the theory of defense.”

Why does he have to look so much like a guilty puppy? There’s no way she can’t explain it now, not with him being so sweet and careful. She bites her lip, trying to figure out the best way to broach the topic, and almost misses how his eyes dip and then rush back up. 

“It’s not that, really. It just that what we were doing... _bothered_ me,” she says, putting a suggestive emphasis on the word in the hopes that he’ll get her meaning.

He doesn’t. “I’m so sorry,” he says, stepping up close and running his hands up and down her bare arms. “It should have occurred to me that wrestling like that might be scary for you, it’s pretty intense--”

“Oliver,” she interrupts, patting his still-clothed chest. Apparently she’s just going to have to come right out and say it. “It _was_ intense, but not in the way you mean. I meant that it _bothered_ me. As in, I was _hot and bothered._ ”

“Oh,” Oliver says, kind of dumbly, and then he blinks. Then there’s a moment of complete silence in the locker room, where all she can hear is their breathing. Well, her breathing. Oliver doesn’t appear to be breathing or doing anything but staring at her.

Felicity pulls her hands away from him. “You think it’s weird. I shouldn’t have said anything, I _knew_ I should have just ignored it, but I mean, who can ignore an oncoming orgasm? It’s kind of distracting. But it’s totally weird, right?” She covers her very warm face with her hands, suddenly extremely aware of her own nudity. “Ugh, I’m sorry. I’m a creep.”

“You’re not a creep,” Oliver says, and when did he get so close? Also, _damn._ His voice sounds really deep all of a sudden. His rough hands surround hers and pulls them back to his chest, and when she opens her eyes, she looks up to find his focused on her, electrifying the air between them. His eyes have gone dark, pupils almost fully blown, and his mouth is parted, and _oh_ , maybe he really _doesn’t_ think she’s a creep.

“It’s not weird,” he continues, leaning down until his mouth is hovering over hers. “Or if it is, I’m as much a deviant as you.”

She frowns, or tries to. It’s hard to do anything other than swoon when his mouth is so close to hers. “I didn’t think it affected you.”

“You know it affects me,” he releases her hands and pulls her hips into his, so that she feels the proof of his words against her belly. “I just didn’t realize it was affecting you too.”

She starts to smile, a slow, sly grin that she knows entices him. “Well, since we’re both affected,” she says, leaning forward until her body is against his, “why don’t we do something about it?”

Before he can say anything, she goes up on the tips of her toes so that her breasts slide up his chest. The power she feels immediately brings all of her arousal back to full swing, and the caress of her nipples against the thin fabric of his shirt feels amazing.

He must agree, because he groans deep in his throat, and his arms come up around her, banding her to him. “How do you want it? Like just now on the mats?”

God, she loves the way his voice gets all low and gravelly when he’s turned on. She almost wants to tell him to forget everything else as long as he’ll keep talking to her like that.

Almost. “Yeah, just like that. I want it to be just like our sparring.”

He nods, nuzzles her neck. “Okay. What’s our safe word?”

“How about ‘wifi’?” she offers, trying to concentrate through the lust muddling her brain.

She feels him nod against her skin. “Sounds good. Anytime you want to, for any reason, just say ‘wifi’ and it all stops, okay?”

She smiles at that, pulls his face back with both hands so she can look him in the eye. Caressing his cheekbones with her thumbs, she lets him feel and see her answer. “I love you, Oliver.”

And that must be all he needs to signal the start of their new and improved sparring session, because the next thing she knows he’s pressing a hard kiss to her lips, and then he’s gone only long enough to strip off his shirt and shorts.

She’s not one for poetry, but she could write whole sonnets about his body, all sharp angles and bitable ridges. In this moment, it’s particularly magnificent, still glistening from their workout, wide shoulders rising with each excited breath. The scars on his chest and stomach just remind her of how resilient and strong her Oliver is, as do his large, muscular thighs and arms. 

Then there’s his cock, which is standing ready and huge and all hers, and she wants him hot and hard in her hands. She only gets one good pump in, one hand circling his shaft and the other caressing his balls, when he grunts and forces her arms away and above her head.

He pushes her back against the lockers, the cold metal against her back making her gasp. One hand holds her wrists up, and the other slides down to her breasts, stroking over one and then the other, brushing his thumb over her nipple a few times before rolling it, repeating the action on her other nipple. The rhythm is unpredictable, he handles over her breasts like he’s playing an instrument, and every sensation feels amplified, spreading over her and building pressure low in her stomach.

He won’t let her move like she wants--he’s using his weight to keep her still against the lockers--and she decides to test his grip. It’s probably more surprise than anything that lets her get a wrist free, and she doesn’t waste the opportunity, turning her other wrist so it breaks the last bit of his hold.

In a move that would make him proud on the mats, she throws her arms around his shoulders uses them for leverage so that she can wrap her legs around his torso. It’s a great position for a few reasons: one, she has the access to bite his jaw and neck and collarbone at will (which drives him crazy), and two, she can grind her sex into his wonderful abs (which she does with great enthusiasm).

The minutes her warmth touches his skin he curses and his stomach tenses pleasantly, making her grin again. His huge hands grip her ass hard, and he yanks her hips farther down, until his hard length his rubbing into her folds and she can’t stop the moan that rises as her hips buck uncontrollably.

He lets her ride him for one, two beats, but then he’s grabbing her arms again, and this time his full force is in it. She struggles, throwing her own strength backwards in the direction he’s moving to loosen his grip, simultaneously rolling her hips to put him off balance and distract him.

It almost works--the combination of pressure against his cock along with the momentum in her arms sidetracks him enough to give her just a second of leeway and the taste of not-really-wanted freedom. But his reflexes have always been faster than hers, and a split-second later her arms are pinned back to the lockers again, this time on either side of her head.

She leans forward and manages to get him in a kiss, and nips at his lower lip hard enough to sting. He huffs a laugh, and she feels it buzz all the way to where he’s still pressing against her pussy. 

“Be good,” he murmurs.

“Nope,” she moans--he’s sucking at that spot on her neck that always gets her going--and laughs a little too. “Can’t.”

She strains again, using muscles in every part of her body to find a weakness in his. It’s an intense battle that showcases just how powerful Oliver is--all of her strength pitted against his and he’s barely moving, counteracting her tactics with a dazzling, incredibly titillating display of brawn.

And she can't help it, she's laughing, and it should ruin the moment. Instead, although it could be scary, it could be a struggle, it doesn't feel like that. It feels like a game. All of Oliver's strength, all of that power focused on her, it could feel dangerous, but instead it feels safe, and trustworthy, and somehow _goofy_. It feels fun, because not one part of it is threatening.

So her laughter--it doesn't ruin the moment, it _makes_ the moment. She and Oliver are suspended in it, surrounded by the warmth of their love and connection.

It’s lovely for what it is, and then as it was always going to, the moment transforms. Her body demands it. They’re moving steadily with each other, her bare skin is hot and humming along his, and she can feel pleasure blooming deep inside her, not quite to the point of no return, but very, very close. She can hear herself whimpering urgently, hips desperately seeking more friction or for him to fill her at last.

Abruptly, he drops her hands and roughly pulls her legs down and to the floor. She whimpers again, ready to be upset at the interruption, but then he’s turning her around to face the lockers.

His arms come around her tightly, forearms settling just under her breasts, his erection pushes insistently to her ass, and he’s pressing her into the lockers in a familiar embrace, and she gets it.

He’s getting her into a _par terre_ position. She _had_ said she wanted it like it was on the mats. It might not be exactly correct--there’s no way they’re getting on their hands and knees on this tile floor--but, great Google, she doesn’t care.

He gently kicks out one of her feet, and she loses her balance but he catches her, and then his cock finds her entrance and pushes into her with one full stroke.

It’s rough but it’s perfect for this, for right now, and in this position she feels every part of him. She cries out at the delicious feeling of invasion, of fullness.

She feels him stutter and hesitate at her cry, and she knows he’s about to ask if she’s alright, so she forestalls that by bracing her hands flat on the lockers and using what little room he’s left her with to thrust back and up with all her strength, so that he’s seated even farther inside her.

“ _Ah_ ,” he grunts, driving his hips forward instinctively in response, “fuck, Felicity.”

“Yep, exactly,” she pants out, and returns his laugh, until he starts moving and it becomes a moan.

The way he’s moving, short little bursts that seem to emphasize how her entrance stretches around him and how his shaft massages the sensitive spot inside her, it’s intoxicating, it’s overwhelming, and soon she’s clenching around him helplessly.

She drops her forehead to the cool metal, trying uselessly to stave off her climax, because she wanted to last longer, enjoy this more.

“Don’t fight it,” Oliver grits out, sensing her reluctance and never stopping. “I’ve got you.”

He lifts a hand to squeeze her breast, thumb flicking over her nipple in time with his little thrusts, and he bites down on her shoulder, and she’s gone, over the edge, loudly mewling and body shaking and knees giving out, heat and pleasure flowing in waves up her stomach and down her thighs.

She feels him twitch inside her, and he starts moving in earnest, long, forceful thrusts that are driving her hips against the lockers. It prolongs her orgasm, or builds it up again, she’s not sure. 

“ _Oliver_ ,” she begs, not knowing what to ask for. She usually can’t come again this quickly, isn’t really sure what to think about it or how to make it happen. “Oliver, I’m--”

He pinches her nipple and she can’t speak, and then the fingers of his other hand are in her folds, rubbing up and down the wet flesh around his cock, tracing her swollen clit, then down again so his fingers are pressing just above where he’s plunging into her. He flattens the heel of his hand against her pubic bone, so that she’s grinding against it with every moment of his hips.

“Felicity,” he grunts, and it’s his turn to beg, because she can feel his control slipping, his body tensing behind her as he approaches his own release.

“Oliver--” she’s having trouble gathering enough breath to speak, “Harder--I need--”

“Okay, Felicity, here we go,” he manages, and the hand between her legs presses back, his fingers pressing up, he pushes hard into her, so _deep_ , and--

She screams.

She drowns out Oliver’s groan as he comes, but she feels him jerk and pulse inside her. Their bodies are straining against each other in a different kind of battle, trying to eke out every bit of ecstasy they can.

She’s still shaking when she finally comes down, and she realizes Oliver is basically holding her up. His forehead is resting in the crook of her neck, his chest pushing into her back as he takes heavy breaths. It’s cozy and calming, and she doesn’t want to move or open her eyes just yet.

She lays her arm across his, which are still hugging her, and entwines their fingers together. “Who do you think won that round?” she asks quietly, smiling.

“You,” he replies, lifting his head to run his lips up her neck, giving light kisses all the way up and tickling her ear. “Definitely you.”

Felicity giggles--actually _giggles_ , which she would hate if it were with anyone but Oliver--and turns around in his embrace. They’re both sticky with sweat, and she feels slick between her thighs, and wrinkles her nose. “We need that shower. And sleep,” she says, yawning.

“Okay.” He leans down, captures her lips in a sweet, shallow kiss before he pulls back. “More practice next week?”

“Sure, but we’re going to have to move it to a different location. This floor would be a killer on my knees,” she replies cheekily.

Then, leaving him to enjoy that mental image, skips around and beats him to the shower.


End file.
